


The Way You Make Me Feel

by inoreuct



Series: Of Godzilla and Aliens [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Childhood Memories, Childhood friends to lovers but also not really, Fluff, Gay Panic, Hotcakes and chicken nuggets after midnight, Ice Cream, Iwaizumi Hajime is a Good Significant Other, M/M, McDonald's, Oh my gods can I get one (1) Iwa please he's such a gentleman scree, Opera Singer! Oikawa, Romantic Fluff, The Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, iwaoi - Freeform, the music of the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inoreuct/pseuds/inoreuct
Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime hadn’t expected to see a familiar face in a sea full of strangers, but he did.And he’s catching feelings.Or were they just feelings that he’d ignored as a child?i.e. the Opera Singer Oikawa AU that I just had to write.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Series: Of Godzilla and Aliens [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964332
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	The Way You Make Me Feel

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s the Spotify link for [The Music of the Night](https://open.spotify.com/track/2jF3AQzvTj9L1Ax9Di5BYu?si=mp636bPsTZqml7laISXXhA) if you want to hear it! (Although it sounds nowhere as sweet as I imagine Oikawa would sound; no offence, Michael Crawford ;))

The air-conditioning was freezing, trailing chilly fingers across his skin. Iwaizumi Hajime shifted uncomfortably in his plush, red-velvet-covered seat, his body tense and wired like a spring that had been coiled tight. His shirt stretched across his shoulders and torso. _Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have let Mattsun convince me to get it in this size…_ Usually, Iwaizumi would be asleep or very nearly there at this point whenever he went to concerts with Matsukawa Issei, although he did always try his hardest to stay awake for his best friend’s sake. 

Hanamaki, Mattsun’s boyfriend, was in the orchestra, so Mattsun always had free tickets. And he _always_ dragged Iwaizumi along with him, joking that the other man needed to ‘loosen up and find someone who will finally bring some colour to those dead cheeks’. 

He couldn’t help dozing off; something about the classical music always lulled him into a daze, the waves of drowsiness pulling him under. This time though, it was different.

Iwaizumi glanced down at the open programme booklet in his hand, smooth and thick and expensive under his thumbs. The weight of it dangled from the pads of his fingers and two words jumped out at him from the page as he lifted it up, elegant black script curling and looping over white paper. _Oikawa Tooru_. He sighed, tipping his head back against his seat as he let the programme drop into his lap. 

Oikawa Tooru would be performing tonight.

Iwaizumi had assumed that that day’s orchestral concert would be the same as all of the others, but he’d nearly spat the free-flow Sauvignon Blanc down the front of his black Armani silk suit when he’d read in the programme that Oikawa would be the guest performer at the end of the concert, and he’d be singing The Music of the Night from The Phantom of the Opera. 

Two hours later, it was officially the end of the concert. And Mattsun was nudging him to pay attention and look because the orchestra had started playing again. And Iwaizumi’s palms were sweaty. Why were Iwaizumi’s palms sweaty?

The rich, red velvet curtain started rising from the stage, draping and hanging in elegant gathered folds.

And Iwaizumi’s breath caught in his throat. 

Oikawa looked even more beautiful than he had when they’d been children.

In kindergarten, Oikawa had been more scrawny than slim, all sharp angles and jutting bones and knobbly joints. His voice had been unnaturally high, and _naturally_ , that made him a prime target for childish bullies who put others down to feel better about themselves, even though they were too young to understand what they were doing. 

But Iwaizumi had always found him beautiful. Warm hair, warm eyes, lanky limbs and unwavering determination that he had managed to appreciate even at a mere six years old. He’d stood up for Oikawa once, just once; it was the only time he had ever actually interacted with his childhood crush, when they’d shared an ice-cream bar during recess after. They’d lost contact after kindergarten (of course they had; their parents had never met) and Iwaizumi had never seen him again.

But there Oikawa was, performing on front and centre stage; he had really flipped his haters the middle finger, and now he was one of the fastest rising opera stars in the _world_. He had bloomed like a flower under the sun, growing into his lanky frame; It was easy to see the lean muscle that wrapped his limbs, bony shoulders nowhere in sight. His svelte figure was draped in sheer turquoise tulle, the wrists and bodice decorated with delicate pink and ivory blooms, artfully crafted petals scattering a little down the skirt that pooled around him slightly on the stage’s polished wooden floorboards. A dark tiara sat nestled in his chocolate-brown hair, inlaid with black and green jewels that glittered under the stage lights, drawing the eye from where Iwaizumi and Mattsun sat in the orchestra seats. 

His eyes were lined with dark shadow, turquoise glitter pressed at the inner corners. Pink-tinted lips were curved into an anticipatory smile, and his cheeks glowed with pigment and health. Iwaizumi’s eyes roved over Oikawa’s lithe form, standing tall and confident and strong as he waited for his cue. It was ridiculous, he knew that, to get so worked up about seeing the man he may or may not have had a crush on as an innocent child. Honestly, he himself still didn’t know if his feelings were real or just misguided, if they were just the result of a silly crush that his confused, naive six-year-old mind had fabricated. 

Oikawa took a deep breath, his chest rising as the music swelled to a crescendo and he parted his lips. 

Iwaizumi’s heart stuttered to a stop in his chest. 

“Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defences…” 

Smack dab in the middle of the orchestra seats, Iwaizumi was close enough to the stage to drink in every single one of Oikawa’s expressions. The brunet’s eyes were warm and tender, head tilted slightly to the side, brows raised in a visage of wistfulness.

It was easy to see how Oikawa had gotten famous in the opera scene. His voice was clear and crisp, like water bubbling from a forest brook. He didn’t use a lot of vibrato, but his notes and turns held a simplicity that was sought-after by many professional singers, yet many times never actually achieved. 

“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender.”

His voice was a chorus of bells in the echoey theatre, ringing up all the way to the ceiling. It was… _pure_ , and sweet, but not effeminate; it seemed to pour into Iwaizumi’s chest like molten, liquid gold, warming him from the inside out. The air-conditioning didn’t seem quite so cold anymore.

“Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light… And listen to the music of the night.”

“Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams, purge your thoughts of the life you knew before.” 

Now Oikawa was persuading them, convincing them to sink into the trance of his song. Iwaizumi could feel the undercurrents pulling him under, feel the music surrounding him in a way it had never done previously.

”Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar…!”

Oikawa turned his face to the side as his eyes fluttered shut, hitting the high note with pinpoint precision, a small smile on his lips. 

“And you'll live as you've never lived before.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth felt curiously dry, and he swallowed hard. For once, he didn’t fight the hypnotic pull of the music. He let himself fall into a trance, a different one than usual; he normally zoned out completely and then dozed off, but this time, he still heard every syllable ring in his ears. He was just blanketed by a feeling of calm, pleasant heaviness, like he was melting into his seat.

It seemed way too quick by the time Oikawa’s performance was over, the entire theatre springing to their seats to give him a standing ovation. The clapping of hands filled the air with thunderous applause, going on and on until Oikawa walked off the stage with a grin and a small wave. 

The orchestra got up and bowed too before going backstage and lugging their instruments with them. Soft chatter broke out amongst the patrons, everybody getting out of their seats and stretching out their stiff limbs. “Hey, Iwa, I want to go see Hanamaki backstage!” Mattsun yawned, scrubbing a hand over his face; it was nearly midnight. 

Iwaizumi frowned pensively. “Are we allowed to do that?” 

“Are you supposed to fall asleep every time you attend a concert?”

“...Touché.”

It was quite a struggle to squeeze through the throngs of people going in the opposite direction, but Iwaizumi and Mattsun managed. Iwaizumi immediately wished they _had_ gotten held up outside; backstage was utter _chaos_. Musicians were milling about everywhere, and Iwaizumi nearly flinched as he heard a woman shriek about not being able to find her ‘stupid goddamn fucking violin bow’.

“Come on!” Mattsun yelled over the din, looking down at his phone. “Makki’s gonna meet us at the back entrance!”

 _So you’re telling me that we didn’t need to come in here after all?_ Iwaizumi scowled, and he would have whacked the back of Mattsun’s head if he had enough space to swing his hand. He raised both arms over his head so he could squeeze between two cellists, and a flash of bright colour caught his eye. 

A pair of turquoise slippers were lying next to the wall, one of them flipped upside-down like they had been kicked to the side. Iwaizumi fought his way over and picked them up, examining the intricate beadwork and fine silk. _Huh. The same colour as…_ His eyes widened. _The same colour as his dress._ Iwaizumi looked over his shoulder to search for a head of dark, messy hair, yelling over to Mattsun, “You go ahead, I’ll catch you guys later!”

“What’s up?”

“Need to return something! Don’t wait up!” Iwaizumi briefly thought that projecting his voice was exhausting. His respect for Oikawa climbed another few notches. 

Mattsun yelled back to text him and disappeared into the crowd with a wave over his shoulder. Iwaizumi turned to face the crowded corridor, silk slippers in hand. _Alright. Now I just need to find his dressing room… If security doesn’t kick me out first._

*

Oikawa groaned in relief as he sank his toes into the plush white fur carpet beneath his bare feet. He’d kicked his jewelled slippers off as soon as he’d gotten backstage and ran off to get a glass of water from a pantry, but when he got back, the corridor had already been flooded with musicians. He’d decided to just head back to his dressing room and look for them later. 

_Best decision ever. Never liked those damn things anyway._ Oikawa wiggled his toes, eyeing the red, irritated stripes on his feet where the stitching of the shoes had rubbed into his skin. He sank back into the plush armchair at his vanity table, lifting a hand to lazily pull the heavy tiara from his hair, wincing as hidden bobby pins tugged on the strands. He dropped it onto the table with a dull clatter and ran his hands through his locks, raking out the little bits of metal and letting them _plink_ to the floor around him. 

He would have to go back and look for the shoes later, unless he wanted to go home barefoot; he’d decided against bringing another pair of shoes to change into, which he was now realising was a _serious_ lapse of judgement on his part. But for now…

Oikawa sat forward and reached behind, tugging at the satin ribbon laces at the back of his dress until they were loose enough for him to slip the sleeves over his arms and push the monstrosity of tulle and mesh and fake petals down over his slim hips. Now clad only in white boxer briefs and a thin cotton slip, he walked over to a mannequin in the corner of the room and pulled his dressing gown off it.

This one was one of his favourites, sheer and gauzy and absolutely extravagant, with its massive bell sleeves and hem frivolously adorned with marabou. The see-through fabric was loose and comfortable against his skin even as he cinched the gown closed at his waist with a notched satin ribbon, a welcome reprieve from the pinching corset-like waist of the gown he had worn on stage. 

He’d bought the dressing gown on a whim, right after he’d performed at the La Scala in Milan. It was lush and luxurious and absolutely impractical, but he’d fallen in love at first sight with the seafoam-coloured feathers and soft, translucent muslin. The fabric swished around him as he collapsed back into his chair, poofing around him in a mint cloud of fluff. 

Oikawa reached for his cotton pads and makeup remover, beginning to wipe off the layers of powder and foundation that had been slathered all over his face. He was just about done working off his mascara when somebody knocked on his dressing room door.

“Come in!” Oikawa called, bending down to throw the cotton pad into the garbage bin under his desk, and he nearly fell out of his chair when he straightened back up. 

An absolute _hunk_ of a man was standing in his half-open doorway. His expensive-looking suit was stretched tight across his bulky shoulders, muscle straining against the shiny fabric. Oikawa fought off a shudder, reliving every moment he had ever questioned his sexuality before he had decided that he was _technically_ bisexual. He’d never actually tried to prove his hypothesis. _Is this my gay awakening?_

The man looked slightly familiar, though. Maybe it was the hair… Oikawa squinted at him slightly before his eyes widened in shock. _Shit, this_ is _my gay awakening._ “Are you… Iwaizumi? Iwaizumi Hajime? From Seijoh Kindergarten?” 

Iwaizumi’s eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. “Yeah! I’m— surprised you remember me, honestly.”

Oikawa’s heart squeezed. _How could I not remember the only person who has ever stood up for me in my life?_ _The person who I had an uber-big crush on that never faded till the middle of junior high? No, wait, I can’t say that…_ “I’m not a goldfish, Iwa-chan, I remember things just fine,” he snarked instead, a cocky grin slashing across his face. 

“Iwa-chan?” Iwaizumi eked out, looking slightly horrified, bright carmine flooding his cheeks. 

“What? It’s cute!” 

He looked away, jaw tightening as his cheeks glowed even ruddier. “You’re so…” he growled, before apparently deciding to drop his argument. “Anyway, I found your stupid shoes.” 

Oikawa peered down as his silk slippers landed on the floor next to his bare feet with a muffled _thunk_ , a little surprised by Iwaizumi’s hostility. He bent down to slip them back on with a long-suffering sigh, tucking his toes into them before pulling the heels up. His stomach growled as he straightened, betraying the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since 6 p.m.. 

“Do you want to… maybe… go get something to eat?” Iwaizumi looked slightly regretful for the way he had snapped, thick fingers rubbing through his hair as he stepped into the room hesitantly. Oikawa smoothed his palms down his front, skin dragging over sheer muslin and mesh. “I… didn’t bring anything to change into.”

Iwaizumi’s frown deepened before he stepped even closer, fingers undoing the buttons on the front of his suit jacket. He shrugged it off and flipped it around and carefully draped it around Oikawa’s shoulders, tugging the collar gently around his neck. “Do you like hotcakes?” 

*

Iwaizumi could physically feel the eyes on them as soon as they stepped into McDonald’s, from both late-night patrons and staff. He had to admit that they looked sorely out of place; Oikawa was in a goddamned _dressing gown_ with _feathers_. And it was _sheer_. And _bright turquoise_. 

Iwaizumi himself was still in his tuxedo vest and trousers, yards and yards of muslin gathered in his arms, feathers tickling his nose; he had picked up Oikawa’s train so it wouldn’t drag over the floor. 

The short drive to the 24-Hour fast-food restaurant had been filled with good-natured teasing and bickering. Oikawa had hummed along with literally every song that had come on on the radio, chattered way too gaily considering it was closer to 1 a.m. than midnight, and generally annoyed the fuck out of Iwaizumi and drove him insane; partly because he had been annoying and partly because he’d just looked too damn pretty in that sheer nightgown, but the singer didn’t need to know that.

The weighted, slippery fabric whipped out of Iwaizumi’s arms as Oikawa slid into a booth seat, poofing out around him on the seat, nearly spilling onto the sticky, grime-coated floor. Iwa had shot Mattsun a quick text on the way to the car, explaining why he wouldn’t be able to meet them after all, and the other man had text-screeched at him to ‘better spill the entire goddamn boiling pot of tea’ as soon as he could. 

They had parked at the underground multi-storey carpark of Iwaizumi’s apartment block; the McDonald’s was right outside the vicinity, and they’d walked there. Iwaizumi was just about to ask what Oikawa wanted to eat, but he realised that he’d been so stuck in his own head that he hadn’t noticed Oikawa strutting over to the counter and rattling off their orders, his voice just barely within earshot. 

“I’ll have a…” he trailed off, looking at the menu glued to the scratched countertop. “Nine-piece box of chicken nuggets and six hotcakes. No, make that a twelve-piece. And an extra tub of maple syrup, please.” 

The cashier gawked at him, goggling at the turquoise mass that he had wrapped around his slim thighs to stop it from dragging on the floor, but eventually she stammered out his total, jabbing her finger aggressively into the monitor screen next to her out of nerves. Oikawa flipped open the wallet in his hand, and—

 _Wait. Is that…_ Iwaizumi squinted, his eyes narrowing into slits. _That_ is _my wallet._ He stopped squinting, realising that he had been leaning forward. He blinked, looked down at the linoleum tabletop, his eyes drawn to an old grease stain that had long since soaked into the white coating. _Fuck, I’ve got it bad._

Oikawa was already back at their table with the food by the time Iwaizumi had gotten his head screwed back on straight and his lungs and heart to function normally, and he’d realised two things; One, his childhood crush had very much _not_ disappeared. Two, his childhood crush was _not_ just a childhood crush. Three, he hadn’t been pissed when he realised that Oikawa had swiped his wallet at all. A little miffed, sure, but mostly just feeling a grudging sense of respect that Oikawa had managed to find his wallet and get it in the first place.

Oikawa hummed under his breath as he arranged his skirt in his lap, shifting in the hard plastic seat before sliding a paper plate with three hotcakes towards Iwaizumi. The other man nearly winced as Oikawa ripped open a tub of maple syrup with vicious enthusiasm, dumping the sugary golden sweetness straight onto his own hotcakes with an artistic drizzle.

 _How does this man make pouring maple fucking syrup look good?_ Iwaizumi’s eyes widened as Oikawa opened a second tub and poured it out too, the syrup dripping down the sides of his hotcakes as he turned his wrist. 

“So, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa started, eyebrows waggling conspirational as he picked up his plastic knife and fork, slicing into his stack of hotcakes. “That suit’s Armani. What do you work as, hmm? A spy?” He stuffed his first bite into his mouth, words muffled as he continued speaking with his mouth full. “A black market dealer? Oh, a male escort, perhaps?” 

“ _Shut up!_ ” Iwaizumi choked, his knife accidentally cutting into his hotcake from where he was spreading margarine all over it. “I’m…” He debated how much to reveal. After all, the last time he’d met Oikawa seemed like a lifetime ago.

He sliced downwards, shoving a chunk of pancake between his lips, chewing and swallowing before he continued. “I’m a CEO of a financial company. 9 to 5 office job, nothing special.” 

Oikawa pouted. He’d already demolished his first hotcake and was now mutilating the second. “Come on, there’s gotta be something special. _Something_ interesting going on behind the scenes. What have you been doing with your _life_?” He sounded scandalised, like he couldn’t imagine a life sitting behind a desk all day and typing away at a computer.

“Well… there is _something_ , but I’m still debating whether you’re gonna give me shit for it or not.” Iwaizumi took another bite of hotcake and nearly moaned as the soft texture melted on his tongue. He could understand why Oikawa was eating so fast.

“Fine, I’ll go first, okay?” Oikawa muttered with an eye roll and a smirk, picking up a chicken nugget and chomping it in half before chewing thoughtfully. “Music… Music is my life. It’s in my _soul_. Performing, being on stage… When you know that everybody’s eyes are on you, that they’re giving you their full attention, you get this— this _rush_ ,” he explained, squinting at the air and waving the decapitated half of the chicken nugget around before popping it into his mouth. “Or at least I do. You’d probably freeze and freak out from stage fright.” 

Iwaizumi chewed angrily on the whole chicken nugget he had shoved between his lips. “I would _not_. I don’t get stage fright,” he hissed, but his flaming cheeks said otherwise.

The singer’s brows rose as he snickered, “You’re speaking from experience.” 

Iwaizumi deigned not to reply, glaring at a spot on the wall where the plaster had chipped away without any true venom in his gaze.

At this time, the diner was nearly empty. A strange sense of serenity had settled over Iwa as he watched Oikawa inhale another chicken nugget, the singer folding the remaining half of his last hotcake in half and eating it in one bite. “Well, Mr I-Don’t-Get-Stage-Fright, the first time I went onstage I was _terrified_. Can I have that?” He waved his knife vaguely towards the direction of Iwa’s last pancake, already reaching towards it. 

Iwaizumi bit into the inside of his cheek. The way Oikawa said it so nonchalantly… The other man had looked so _at home_ on the stage it was hard to imagine him being remotely nervous. Iwaizumi managed to hide the warmth blooming in his chest, though, bullshitting a snarky excuse off the top of his head. “You buy food with the money from my wallet that you _stole_ , and now you’re stealing my hotcakes. Real nice, Oikawa.” 

Oikawa tossed his head back and laughed, his skin glowing in the harsh fluorescent lights. “I’m one of the fastest-rising opera singers in the world, Iwa-chan. You’ve gotta pay for my company, you know.” He screeched in offence as Iwaizumi whacked him over the head with his empty paper plate, hands held up in front of his face even as he slid down the seat from his laughter. 

Was it natural for Iwaizumi to feel like fireworks were exploding in his chest? He didn’t know, but the smile that curved his lips felt plenty natural to him. _God, even his laugh is beautiful._ Oikawa’s eyes were shut, lashes twitching as he wheezed, half-delirious with exhaustion and high from maple syrup. Iwaizumi had never thought that his little childhood crush could have blossomed into something this big without his notice, not until his heart had nearly seized in his chest when he found out that Oikawa would be performing.

“So… do you remember the day you stood up for me?” Oikawa sighed when his laughter had finally subsided into hiccupping giggles, wiggling back upright in his seat. 

“Yeah, why?” Iwaizumi snatched up the last chicken nugget, nibbling on the crispy outer coating.

“And the Oreo ice-cream bar I split between us after?” 

“...Yeah?”

Oikawa slipped out of his seat with a spry smile, walking over to the counter. It hadn’t even been three minutes when he came back holding two waffle cones topped with black-speckled ice-cream. “I got us McFlurries on cones!!” 

Iwaizumi glanced at the desserts suspiciously. “McDonald’s doesn’t sell McFlurries on cones.”

“Of course not! But it’s amazing what a well-timed wink can do.” Oikawa shot him a wink, and Iwaizumi had to glare to the side again because all of a sudden, there was an entire squadron of butterflies flying in formation and doing aerial tricks in his stomach.

*

The weather was nice. There were barely any clouds in the sky, and Iwaizumi and Oikawa were able to get an unobstructed view of the moon as they wandered aimlessly through the streets. Oikawa had given up trying to keep his dressing gown off the floor; he’d tied it unglamorously around his waist and left it bunched up over his thighs. A breeze slithered past them and he shivered, drawing the lapels of Iwaizumi’s jacket closed around his collar with one hand, the other holding his waffle cone as he took a lick of ice-cream.

The dessert was sweet in his mouth, with bits of Oreo crumbs interspersed in the rich cream. It reminded him of earlier times, of sharing a melting ice-cream bar eaten off the inside of a lunchbox cover with a boy who’d given him butterflies in his stomach. Who still did, actually.

Oikawa heard Iwaizumi suck in a deep breath, like he was steeling himself for something. “Do you want to come back to my place?” 

The ice-cream suddenly didn’t taste quite so sweet as it did before. 

Oikawa’s ever-present smirk widened, but Iwaizumi couldn’t help but think that his eyes looked disappointed, and a little sad too. “So you’re the love ’em and leave ’em type of guy, huh?” 

“No!” Iwaizumi sputtered, “No, that’s not why I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just— decided that I want to show you the _something_. The… pretty much the only interesting part about me that I think you’ll appreciate. And yes, I do want _that_ with you eventually,” he winced, swallowing hard, “but I’m going to treat you right first. If you want that too. If it’s not too late?”

_He looks like he’s gonna throw up._ Oikawa had to hold in a giggle. The Iwa-chan he remembered had been stoic and gruff and grumpy, albeit only six years old. They locked eyes and Iwaizumi fidgeted under Oikawa’s intense gaze. His irises were clear and dark, like the coffee Oikawa couldn’t take without spoonfuls of sugar and heavy cream. The singer stared at him for a moment longer before deciding to put Iwaizumi out of his misery. “Well, come on, Iwa-chan,” he said mysteriously, tossing his fringe away from his face and strutting forward with a swing in his hips even though he actually had no damn idea where he was going. 

It was only a few minutes later when Oikawa started slowing down, walking stiffly enough for Iwaizumi to notice. “What’s wrong?” he asked, stuffing the last of his waffle cone into his mouth and dusting his palms against each other.

Oikawa flapped a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing—” 

“It’s _not_ nothing,” Iwaizumi snapped, arms akimbo as his feet came to a halt, Then, more gently, “Do your feet hurt?” 

“...It’s these stupid shoes. Why do you think I kicked them off as soon as I got backstage?”

Iwazumi stayed still for a moment longer before he bent down slightly, sliding an arm beneath Oikawa’s knees and back. 

Before the singer knew it he had been hitched into a princess carry, slippered feet dangling in the air over Iwaizumi’s forearm. “Whoa whoa whoa whoa, what are you doing?” Oikawa chuckled nervously, moving his half-eaten ice-cream cone out of the way. 

“Saving you the pain of blisters,” Iwaizumi stated matter-of-factly. 

Oikawa could feel rock-solid muscle pressed against his calves, and under his fingers from where he had grabbed Iwaizumi’s shoulders instinctually. _Good god…_ He couldn’t resist a little appreciative squeeze before he belatedly realised that Iwaizumi had started moving again, and he tried to scrape his short-circuited brain cells back together into a semblance of a functioning encephalon. “ _No_ , you’re incinerating my dignity. Put me down, Iwa-chan!” 

Iwaizumi scoffed, bouncing Oikawa once to readjust his grip and smirking when the singer squeaked. “You were the one that said your feet hurt.” 

“Yeah, but I’d rather let them hurt than get carried like some helpless damsel in distress when I am very much _not_ a damsel and _not_ in distress!” Despite his chagrin, Oikawa couldn’t resist inching even closer to Iwaizumi, pressing his cheek to the other man’s shoulder. Iwaizumi was warm and solid and muscly and _god_ , did he smell good, like spearmint and coffee and applewood smoke.

He barely held in a disappointed sigh when Iwaizumi set him down with an eye roll, making sure Oikawa was steady on his feet and not stepping on his train before he knelt down. He started picking at the laces of his dress shoes, untying them and pulling them off before reknotting the black shoestrings into loose bows. He ripped his socks off and stuffed them into his pocket, straightening up barefoot and nudging Oikawa with his shoulder. “Put them on.” 

All Oikawa was draped in was sheer muslin, but he felt warm all over even in the chilly night air. The streetlight above them flickered, throwing Iwaizumi’s face into shadow for just a moment. If someone told him that his lungs had been set on fire and were burning inside his chest, he would have believed them. 

No one had ever done this kind of thing for him before; cared for him, _about_ him, made him feel wanted for more than his money and his body. Made him feel like more than just a pretty face and a pretty voice. It made him feel… normal. Not Oikawa Tooru, star opera singer and heartthrob, but just Oikawa. Oikawa Tooru, hotcake mutilator and maple syrup addict. 

Oikawa slipped his feet out of his flats and bent down, stepping into the slightly-too-big dress shoes and tugging the heels up with one hand. 

“Oikawa, it’s dripping, It’s dripping—!”

The singer looked around just in time to see Iwaizumi bending down to lick the melting ice-cream off the side of his half-eaten waffle cone, but he froze when his lips were just short of Oikawa’s fingers.

The ice-cream dripped onto the pavement.

Oikawa would have sworn that even the cicadas shut up and quit buzzing, near-invisible dust motes freezing suspended in the air. But them Iwaizumi seemed to remember himself and pulled away, his ears and cheeks glowing almost neon in the dim light. 

“Dumbass. You have to take care of yourself,” he muttered, reaching for Oikawa’s free hand as he bent down to hook two fingers at the heels of the other man’s ballet flats and pick them up.

The insides of Iwaizumi’s shoes were smooth under Oikawa’s scrunching toes, and he fake-gagged loudly. “Eew, Iwa-chan! I don’t want to hold your hand after you touched your socks!”

But he did anyway.

*

The lift ride up twenty-six floors was _awful_ , complete with crappy elevator music. At least, until Iwaizumi unlocked his apartment door, and Oikawa amended his opinion. It was totally worth it. 

The singer gasped in delight at the sight of the upright piano against the living room wall. It was a Yamaha, one of the older models and obviously well-loved, but it still sent Oikawa’s heart skittering in his chest. “You can play?” he asked, kicking off Iwaizumi’s shoes and leaving them by the door. 

“Would I have a piano if I couldn’t play?” Iwaizumi deadpanned, turning to look at Oikawa from where he was hanging the car keys up on a hook on the wall. The other man gave him a slow shrug and two exaggeratedly raised eyebrows as if to say ‘ _I don’t know!_ ’. Iwaizumi sighed in a sort of fond exasperation. “I got my diploma when I left high school, so…” He trailed off in a yawn. 

A quick glance at the clock hanging on the wall revealed that it was nearly two in the morning, but Oikawa was too keyed-up to be tired. “Wow, Iwa-chan. Such a show-off.” 

“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Iwaizumi walked over to the piano and carefully lifted out the bench, pushing the glossy black lid up and neatly folding the piece of red felt that covered the ivory keys. He trailed his fingers across them slowly, admiration and love clear in his gaze.

Oikawa chewed on his bottom lip. _Is it ridiculous for me to be jealous of a piano?_

Iwaizumi started playing a melody, just a simple one with no chords or ornaments. Oikawa slid onto the bench next to him, watching callused fingers press down on keys as the song increased in complexity, Iwaizumi presumably improvising. Oikawa cocked his head. _Wait…_ He looked up in surprise and met dark eyes, calm and steady. “You’re playing…” 

“I was listening to the orchestra too, you know. You were only the _guest_ performer.” 

Oikawa grinned and took a slow breath, feeling the way the air slipped between his lips, singing under his breath with his first exhale. “Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defences…” 

Oikawa’s voice was just as lovely as it was before, but it was softer, quieter; words formed and sung only for the two of them to hear. Iwa hadn’t practised in months, and yet the notes just seemed to flow out of him, chasing Oikawa’s voice to twine into harmonies and melodies which sounded impossibly beautiful.

“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light… And listen to the music of the night.” Oikawa closed his eyes, letting the music fill him up with sound and warmth and calm, his chest humming with his voice. _I think I prefer having this accompaniment to having the entire orchestra._

“Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams, purge your thoughts of the life you knew before. Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar…! And you'll live as you've never lived before.” Iwaizumi was good, there was no denying that. He was good on his own, but Oikawa made his music _better_. _How can I feel so comfortable with someone that I’ve only just met today? We met when we were kids, yeah, but that was so long ago…_

He glanced over to his right, only to see Oikawa with his head tipped back, lips parted in song. This time, Iwaizumi was fully aware of the singer’s voice, every note resonating sharp and clear in his chest. He could see a little smudge of glitter and eyeshadow at the corner of Oikawa’s eye, presumably a spot that he’d missed. He could see soft, shifting waves of chocolate hair, messy in a way that somehow seemed deliberate. _Beautiful._

“Softly, deftly, music shall surround you. Feel it, hear it closing in around you. Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness which you know you cannot fight… The darkness of the music of the night.” 

“Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world, leave all thoughts of the world you knew before! Let your soul take you where you long to be…! Only then can you belong to me...”

“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication. Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation.” Oikawa looked to his left, only to find Iwaizumi already looking at him, the other man’s eyes dark and tender. It almost felt natural to lean it, to fall into that gravitational tug that pulled at his chest. 

Iwaizumi began mirroring him hesitantly as the soft notes of the piano slowed down. 

“Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in, to the power of the music that I write… The power of the music of the night.” 

Iwaizumi had given up playing by now, his hands limp in his lap. 

Oikawa watched his Adam’s apple bob, the singer’s voice getting softer as he tilted his head. “You alone can make my song take flight…” 

Iwaizumi could smell the faint sweetness on Oikawa’s breath, the brunet’s long lashes fluttering. 

“Help me make the music of… the… night…” The singer breathed the last word against Iwaizumi’s lips, the one long note soft and wavering in the air before Iwaizumi slipped a hand around his jaw and pulled Oikawa’s lips to his. 

Vanilla. Oikawa tasted like vanilla, sweet and warm and comforting on his tongue. Iwaizumi couldn’t resist when the singer’s lips parted, slipping into Oikawa’s mouth to taste the remnants of cream and chocolate. He flicked his tongue against the back of Oikawa’s throat, surprised when the other man nipped playfully at his lip, questing, searching, giving and taking and sharing and _being_. Just being. 

The first time they’d had ice-cream together, Oikawa and Iwaizumi had ended up sitting side-by-side on a bench in the school canteen. The second time, they _still_ ended up on a bench; just that this time, they were sharing a kiss, too. 

Oikawa slid his fingers up into spiky hair, gripping tight as Iwaizumi grunted against his lips and sucked his tongue into his mouth. Then there were strong arms around his waist, pulling him close against a warm, solid body, his eyes sliding shut as his lips moved on instinct. They pulled away from each other for air eventually, when Oikawa’s lips were kiss-bruised and plump and red. Iwaizumi couldn’t resist ducking in for just one more bite of the singer’s plush, swollen bottom lip, drawing a trembling, breathless laugh from the other man, more of a whine, actually. 

Oikawa fell forward until his chest was leaning against Iwaizumi’s torso, face pressed into the crook of his neck. “So… I take it that McDonald’s just now was our first date?”

Iwaizumi slid one hand up to the back of Oikawa’s neck, fingers playing with the soft baby hairs he found there. “If you want it to be.” He hesitated for a moment longer before uncertainly adding, “I know that I want it to.”

The singer laughed softly, his body jerking slightly against Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “Iwaizumi Hajime, I was gay for your magnificent ass before I even knew what gay was. Am I your boyfriend yet?”

“So impatient… Tooru.” 

“I wasn’t waiting for you, but now that I’ve found you, you better believe that I’m not gonna let you slip through my fingers, _Hajime_.” Oikawa nuzzled deeper into Iwaizumi’s neck, ghosting his nose along heated skin as the other man shuddered lightly. “Now, as my boyfriend, it’s your job to indulge me. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep now, so let’s watch The Phantom of the Opera.” 

Iwaizumi groaned into Oikawa’s hair.

Eventually, he still went to fetch his laptop anyway. 

*

The movie was playing on his laptop screen, but Iwaizumi couldn’t focus on it at all. They were both settled comfortably on his couch; Iwaizumi had changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants, but Oikawa had decided to shuck off his gown and lounge around in his slip, teasingly saying that ‘it’s comfortable, Iwa-chan! Are you that desperate to see me in your clothes?’.

Iwaizumi couldn’t bring himself to admit that he actually was.

They were about halfway through the movie and Oikawa was curled up against Iwaizumi’s side, fast asleep and snoring softly. _God, even his snore is ridiculously adorable._ But the thin slip that clung to his slim frame was... thin. And his legs were long and creamy and incredibly bare.

Iwaizumi’s cheeks burned as he clapped both palms over his eyes, giving his head a good shake. _Get your mind out of the fucking gutter, Hajime._ When his hands slid down, Oikawa was still nuzzled up against his side, nose buried in his left shoulder. Seeing as the brunet was obviously in no state to keep watching and Iwaizumi hadn’t been particularly invested in the movie in the first place, he quietly lowered the lid of his laptop and shifted it off his knees. It was practically effortless to lift Oikawa into his arms; the other man fit perfectly against his chest, soft and warm and sleepy like a contented cat. 

Iwaizumi padded down the hall and shouldered open his bedroom door, walking inside to lay Oikawa on the mattress. He carefully dragged the comforter up and tucked the brunet in before he turned, planning to go back to the living room and sleep on the couch; just because they were in a sort-of-relationship now didn’t mean that Oikawa was definitely comfortable with sharing a bed with him, and Iwa wasn’t going to run the risk of making his new boyfriend feel uncomfortable in any way. 

But before Iwaizumi could leave the bedside, he felt fingers wrap around his wrist and tug him back. 

“Stay,” Oikawa mumbled softly into the pillow, still half-asleep, and when Iwaizumi tried to gently pull his wrist away he tugged more insistently. “Stay.” 

It took a few more drowsy, mumbled words of assent to convince Iwaizumi to climb onto the mattress behind Oikawa. It was a tight fit; his bed was _not_ meant for two people, but they made it work. 

It felt foreign when Oikawa wiggled around and tossed a leg over his hip; Iwaizumi had been in relationships before, but none of them had worked out.

But it also felt safe and comforting, like sharing ice-cream with an old friend in the middle of the night, like a newfound friendship blossoming into something more. 

Or maybe, just maybe, they had found something real way back then, in a small kindergarten schoolyard. Something with more depth than their six-year-old minds could comprehend. 

And when Oikawa nuzzled into the side of his neck, Iwaizumi slipped his arms around the other man’s waist and pulled him close, humming a now-familiar melody under his breath and letting his voice lull them both to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oikawa would totally wear [this](https://boudoirbydlish.bigcartel.com/product/extra-deluxe-mint-cassandra-dressing-gown) and you cannot fight me. And these are his [gown](https://pin.it/BW2LtAE), [tiara](https://pin.it/2EoUFFi) and [shoes](https://pin.it/1yGhofR)!! 
> 
> I think it’s kinda obvious by now that I have an obsession for putting pretty boys into pretty dresses and pretty shoes and pretty tiaras. Oops.
> 
> I’m really manifesting on this one! I’ve been a classical singer and a pianist since I was a kid, and I got this brainwave at 8 in the morning when I was in school with my friend (love ya Joelle) :> I’ve dabbled in songs from The Phantom before (mainly just Think of Me and Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again) and I just _had_ to write this. 
> 
> Honestly, I’ve been feeling kind of out of sorts lately. Something just doesn’t feel _right_ about my writing, like there’s constantly something missing, be it the description of the setting or the character’s emotions. I’m still trying to break through it, so bear with me!! I really can’t tell what the problem is, so I definitely wouldn’t mind constructive feedback, criticism and a few encouraging words in the comments, if you’re willing to indulge me 👉🏼👈🏼🥺
> 
> As always, hugs and kisses and all the love in the world to my dear talented [aesthetic_clown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aesthetic_cl0wn/pseuds/snOwtear), without whom I would be losing my mind over a hundred and one unfinished drafts because I wouldn’t be able to think of endings for them on my own. Go to her for angst (like punch-to-the-chest angst) and Levihan from AoT!!
> 
> Wow. You’re still here? This is a really damn long author’s note, I know, so thank you for sticking it out :D Have you eaten yet? Drank enough water? Please take care of yourselves, and don’t forget that I appreciate every single one of y’all 💕 Thank you for reading!!


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